


Forever Imperfect

by loves_books



Series: Forever Changed [6]
Category: The A-Team (2010), The A-Team - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-02-25
Packaged: 2018-09-24 04:36:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9702266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loves_books/pseuds/loves_books
Summary: There had been many moments in Hannibal’s life which split his world into before-and-after. Before-and-after he had signed the last piece of paper to confirm his retirement from the Rangers. Before-and-after the moment Face’s left leg had been severed above the knee. Before-and-after the moment they had exchanged rings and said ‘I do’.And now came four simple words which would break Hannibal’s world into yet another before-and-after.“There’s been an accident.”





	1. Five

**Author's Note:**

> I've been playing with structure and style in my writing recently, and I'm not entirely sure how well this will work. Yes, it really does start with part Five. And please note that I'm not using archive warnings...

There were certain universal constants in the world, one of which was the fact that being woken from a dead sleep at four in the morning by a ringing telephone could never mean anything good. 

Immediately, Hannibal’s sleep-heavy brain knew it couldn’t be work – he was retired, and had been retired for years. Couldn’t be anything but bad news, and his heart was already racing as he fumbled around in the darkness on the bedside table, sending books tumbling and knocking his reading glasses to the floor, until finally his searching fingers landed on the phone and lifted it to his ear before he was even half awake.

“Hello?” he croaked, coughing once to clear his throat and shifting slightly on his pillows. “Who the hell is this?”

A pause, and Hannibal’s heart sped up even faster before a woman’s voice answered. “Good morning, Sir. I’m sorry to wake you, but I’m trying to reach Colonel-retired John Smith?”

Military after all, then. Hannibal reached over to turn on the bedside lamp, blinking hard in the sudden, painful brightness. “Speaking.”

“Sir, I’m calling from the Walter Reed National Military Medical Centre, in Bethesda. Near Washington DC.” Oh dear God, no. Hannibal found himself whispering a brief prayer under his breath as the woman continued, “You’re listed as the next of kin for Captain Templeton Smith?”

_Face…_

For a long, terrible moment Hannibal was frozen in place, utterly unable to find his voice to reply. Unable to do anything but listen to the roar of his heartbeat thundering in his ears, and fight to take a breath as his chest tightened painfully to the point where he feared he would have a cardiac arrest, right there in his bed. 

He longed to slam the phone back down and pretend it was all just a horrible nightmare. Perhaps he’d wake to find Face sleeping by his side, warm and soft and welcoming, but Face’s side of the bed lay cold and empty. Hannibal was all alone with his fear, and this was all too real.

“Colonel Smith?” Hannibal was drawn back to his harsh reality by the sound of the woman calling his name repeatedly down the phone, a hint of confusion and concern now appearing in her voice. “Do I have that right, sir?”

“Yes,” he manage to whisper eventually. “Yes, he’s my husband. Is he – What’s happened? Please, tell me he’s okay?”

There had been many moments in Hannibal’s life which split his world into before-and-after. Before-and-after he had signed the last piece of paper to confirm his retirement from the Rangers. Before-and-after the moment Face’s left leg had been severed above the knee. Before-and-after the moment they had exchanged rings and said ‘I do’.

And now came four simple words which would break Hannibal’s world into yet another before-and-after.

“There’s been an accident.”


	2. Four

Six long and lonely weeks had passed by, and yet Hannibal never seemed quite able to remember, not when he first arrived back at the house. It was as if his mind simply blocked out the truth, from the very moment he left, unable to cope with the reality of exactly what his life had become. 

The absence of Face’s vintage Corvette on the driveway when Hannibal returned could simply mean that his husband was out somewhere, working or at the gym, or meeting friends, perhaps. The fact that there were no lights on in the house might just mean that Face was out back, watching the stars, or already curled up in bed, waiting for Hannibal to join him.

Hannibal never remembered that Face was gone, not until he stepped inside the front door and went to hang up his jacket. And then he’d see it: the row of empty hooks where Face’s designer coats used to sit alongside his uniform jacket. The empty shelves on the shoe rack which used to hold a dozen pairs of smart shoes, uniform boots and well-worn sneakers.

That particular night, as always, the emptiness and the absence in the coat closet hit him like a gunshot to the chest, all the air leaving his lungs as he fought the sudden dizziness at the memory. Face was gone. His husband had gone.

Hannibal’s single thin jacket didn’t take up much of that empty space as he placed it gingerly on a hook, and he kicked off his shoes quickly, letting them fall haphazardly on the floor next to his battered old trainers. He shut the door of the coat closet as soon as possible, his heart hurting all over again, and his head pounding. 

No wonder his brain blocked it all out.

As Hannibal wandered aimlessly through the house, he realised yet again that it was the absence of so many tiny things that made the bigger absence – Face’s absence – seem so painfully real. Hannibal’s keys sitting alone in the blue bowl on the hall table, rather than tangling with a second bunch. A single pint of full fat milk in the fridge, two days too old to be anything more than utterly rancid, rather than being accompanied by the fully skimmed Face had always insisted on.

No briefcase overflowing with papers, and no rucksack dumped on the kitchen table to be forgotten about as soon as Face got distracted for the night. Hannibal had always taken so much pleasure in distracting him. And Face had always had a tendency to leave a trail of uniform behind himself as he passed through the house after work – now, there was no shirt draped over the back of the armchair, no belt hanging limply on the staircase, and no socks abandoned on the floor outside the bathroom.

The gaps on the living room wall hurt the worst, even after the six long weeks he’d already had to adjust, and it was always like a slap to the face every time Hannibal noticed the missing photo frames from the corner of his eye. He tried so hard not to look at them but something about the gaps drew his gaze time and again. Their wedding photo still hung in pride of place in the very centre, surrounded by pictures of their friends, family and colleagues. Photos of Murdock and BA, of Tom Reid and Face’s former mentor Major Cartwright, of Father Maghill and Mama B.

But the gaps… The gaps were a reminder of everything Hannibal had thrown away, in his stupidity and stubbornness, and the gaps hurt.

Where there should have hung casual photos of Hannibal and Face, together and in love, there was now only blank space. One particular gap had been a photo of the two of them on the beach two years earlier, Hannibal’s lopsided attempt at a selfie, too-close and too-blurry but with a laughing Face sporting a smear of ice-cream on the tip of his nose. 

Another gap had been a close-up of them dancing together at Mama B’s seventieth birthday party last year, happily lost to the world in each other’s arms, so handsome in their matching tuxedos. They had looked as if nothing could ever tear them apart. How drastically life could change in a single year.

Hannibal shook himself, managing to tear his eyes away from the holes in his life, and forced himself to turn away. He supposed he should be glad, in some small way, that the photos had gone. A glimmer of hope, and a sign that nothing was set in stone, not yet. Nothing that had happened was permanent. There might be a way back. 

Christ, he really needed a drink.

No. No, he really didn’t.

Life went on, no matter how alone and abandoned he might feel, and at least it wasn’t just him rattling around the house by himself; he had the pets to care for and feed, of course. In a way it was surprising that they hadn’t already made their grand entrance for the evening, but Hannibal would have to admit that the cat had been ignoring him since Face had gone, and she rarely rushed to greet him. Tilly had always been Face’s cat more than his, and while she would happily eat the food Hannibal put down for her, she wouldn’t lower herself to sit on his lap or accept too much fuss. 

And with a start Hannibal suddenly remembered that Buster, their young Labrador, was actually staying with a friend; that was yet another thing that Hannibal couldn’t seem to remember, always expecting the dog to come bounding up when he walked in the front door. Buster would have been excited to see him, at least. Face had been worried Hannibal would forget to take him for walks or let him out for a run, so he’d arranged for someone from his work to look after him, behind Hannibal’s back. 

Such an obvious example of Face’s loss of trust in Hannibal had hurt almost more than anything else that had happened between them, particularly after Hannibal had worked so long and so hard to earn that precious trust in the first place. But in his heart Hannibal had known he had already lost it by that point; he simply hadn’t allowed himself to realise it until then, and he hadn’t truly despaired until that moment.

There had to be a way back, he reminded himself for the thousandth time as he scooped cat food from a tin into Tilly’s bowl, hearing the dull thud upstairs as she leapt down from whatever warm soft spot she’d been sleeping in. This half-empty house wasn’t a home, not anymore, and it was Hannibal’s fault. It was only Hannibal who could change it, and piece his life back together the way it should be. 

Easier said than done, of course. Far, far easier said than done. He left the cat eating her dinner and wandered further through the downstairs of the house without turning any of the lights on, stopping to stare into his shadowy study for a moment. Stared at the desk with its thin layer of dust and the laptop he hadn’t opened in weeks. Another sign, if any more signs were needed, of his many failures. 

Hannibal turned abruptly away without even setting a foot inside the room. 

He really, really needed a drink. One couldn’t hurt.

Hating himself for his weakness, Hannibal headed back to the kitchen, where the cat didn’t even glance up from her bowl, and lifted a bottle of cheap whiskey from where it sat waiting on the side. It was a brand new bottle, naturally – there never seemed to be any half-finished bottles in the house, not recently, and the recycling bin was overflowing with empties. 

The first swig of alcohol burned his throat on the way down, just like swallowing liquid fire, but some of that loneliness and emptiness burned away in a heartbeat. The second swig gave him the courage to walk slowly upstairs and into the master bedroom, clutching the bottle tightly in his clenched fist. 

If it hurt Hannibal to see the gaps where precious photographs used to hang, everything was always so much worse there, in the bedroom they had shared for years. The gaps there contrasted so sharply with the few things left behind, and Hannibal didn’t know how to even begin to cope. 

There was the empty bedside table where Face always used to keep a glass of water and a couple of books. The pair of crutches still leaning against the wall for the days or nights when Face’s prosthetic leg had grown too uncomfortable. The king-sized bed that was far too large for Hannibal on his own, the pillows on the right hand side untouched for six weeks but still smelling faintly of Face’s shampoo. 

And that was before Hannibal even glanced into the wardrobe, which was a million times emptier than the coat closet could ever be, and therefore a million times more painful. No uniforms, no tailored suits, no designer jeans. A few abandoned pairs of socks and underwear in the drawer they had shared, which was somehow worse than if they had all gone – black silk socks seemed to laugh at Hannibal from where they lay folded perfectly beside his balled-up dollar shop bargains.

Whiskey, that was what Hannibal needed to fill the emptiness, and the third swig was followed swiftly by the fourth, before the fifth finally sent his thoughts reeling away from the house that was no longer a home. The world turned pleasantly blurry around the edges, and his heart rate settled as his confidence returned. He could fix everything, he just had to figure out how. 

Hannibal would need a clear head, though, so perhaps he would start thinking about it tomorrow, rather than right there and then. No more whiskey. He was good at plans, even after years of retirement. He was still a colonel at heart, and always would be. He could make a plan in the morning.

He’d promised himself that much before, but this time he truly meant it. He still had time to fix everything. Tomorrow would be a fresh start, but, well, tonight? Tonight he’d finish the whiskey first. There seemed little sense in letting it go to waste, after all.


	3. Three

Hannibal stopped dead in the doorway to their bedroom, having to brace his hands on the doorframe to stop himself collapsing to the floor as his muscles turned abruptly to water. All his worst fears seemed to be coming true in the blink of an eye.

“You’re leaving me?” he whispered, his heart lurching into his throat and threatening to choke him.

But Face just huffed, throwing an incredulous look over his shoulder at Hannibal, though he didn’t pause in his actions. “Don’t be so melodramatic,” he sighed after a too-long moment, though it sounded almost reluctant, and the frantic pace of Hannibal’s heart eased only a fraction.

“So… what are you doing, then?” Hannibal still couldn’t quite make his brain compute what he was actually seeing, and Face’s calm, almost inscrutable response hadn’t helped him at all.

“I’m packing.” That much was stating the blindingly obvious as Face folded another uniform shirt with practised and steady hands, placing it carefully into one of the three large suitcases which lay open on their bed. Two were mostly full already, and Hannibal could just about see a tightly curled bundle of fluff in the third, which could only be their cat Tilly, asleep in a warm patch. The wardrobe doors stood wide open, revealing shelves and rails which were nearly empty of everything but Hannibal’s own clothes – wherever he was going, Face wasn’t packing light.

Hannibal’s head was already pounding. “You’re packing, but you’re not leaving?”

Face sighed again, but this time he didn’t look up. “I’m taking that job in Washington DC,” he explained patiently, and Hannibal’s heart sank like a stone. “The one we talked about last week. The one I decided to turn down, though you probably don’t remember anything about that conversation.”

There was a hint of bitterness and a definite bite beneath the surface of Face’s apparently calm words, and Hannibal felt the intended sting like a kick to the groin. “I do remember,” he said belatedly, but Face simply shrugged and kept right on talking as if Hannibal hadn’t even spoken.

“They called this morning, and they still want me up there – still need me, in particular, with my skills and experience – so I’m flying up this afternoon. It’ll only be for twelve weeks.” Another pause as Face moved around the bed to rummage in the depths of the half-empty wardrobe, his next words barely audible. “It’ll do us both good.”

Hannibal still couldn’t believe it – nothing about what he was seeing made any sense to him. Nothing about what Face was saying made any sense.

“Twelve weeks is three whole months,” he pointed out, cringing almost immediately at the stupidity of his words as Face barked a dull, humourless laugh in response.

“So you can still do basic math right now, huh? I guess I should be impressed.”

Hannibal chose to let that go for the time being, still trying to wrap his head around everything. “We’ve never been apart for more than a couple of days since I retired.” Nearly four years since that wonderful day, three years since their wedding, and the very thought of it made Hannibal’s chest feel tight. Perhaps Face felt the weight of it too as he actually paused in his packing for the first time, glancing across at Hannibal from the far side of the bed.

But when Face spoke, his words were still calm, his voice steady, and his bright blue eyes were as hard as steel. “Maybe that’s why we need this. Maybe the time apart will do us both good.” 

“You said that already, but I don’t – ” 

“No, John, listen to me for a minute.” Face threw a pair of jeans into an already overflowing suitcase and slammed it shut with far more force than was necessary, causing their startled cat to pop her head up from one of the other cases with a disgruntled meow. “I know you don’t want to hear it, and I’m tired of trying to get through to you, but you need to take some time to sort yourself out one way or another. At least if I’m in Washington then I won’t be here to distract you.”

Hannibal stepped around the end of the bed, reaching out a hand to catch Face and pull him close, but his husband took a step away, raising a hand of his own as if to stop Hannibal in his tracks.

“Face, baby, you could never be a distraction.” Hannibal hated that his voice broke a little on the last word, and had to clear his throat before continuing. “I need you here with me. I love you.”

“And I love you too, you know that, but we can’t go on like this.” Face gestured vaguely at his left cheek, where a fading yellow-blue bruise was still visible. “I can’t go on like this. It isn’t fair on either of us.”

Hannibal still couldn’t look directly at the bruise, his heart feeling as if it was breaking cleanly in two each time he saw the reminder of his own stupidity. And he did know it had been stupid, and he knew it had both hurt and scared his husband, but surely that wasn’t a reason for Face to pack his bags and leave, even if it was only for a twelve week secondment.

“I’ve told you a thousand times how sorry I am.” That was nowhere near enough, but Hannibal had long since run out of words to express how horrified he’d been the morning after, when he’d woken up to see the swollen and bruised mess he’d made of Face’s cheek. Face had only been trying to help him, but Hannibal had done the one thing he’d always said he would rather die than do – he’d hurt the man he loved. 

That same hurt was visible again in Face’s eyes now as the younger man took a deep breath, clearly gathering his thoughts before replying. “I know you’re sorry. I believe you, and I know it was a genuine accident. But there’s a part of me that can’t help thinking…”

Hannibal had to swallow hard to clear the lump in his throat. “I promised you then that nothing like that will ever happen again, and I meant it. I still mean it.”

“I don’t think you’re in any state to keep that promise, John.” Face visibly shook himself, blinking hard as he turned purposefully back to his packing. “You don’t see what I see. You don’t think it’s a problem.”

“It isn’t a problem,” Hannibal replied immediately. “I’ve got it completely under control.”

Face snorted and raised an eyebrow. “Really? So, how much have you had today then? Bearing in mind that it’s only half ten in the morning?” 

Two bottled beers, Hannibal’s brain supplied automatically. And perhaps a couple of sips of whiskey. But – “That’s not… That isn’t what we’re talking about here.” 

“No, but it’s what we should be talking about. It’s what you refuse to talk about. What I’m tired of trying to talk to you about.” Face sounded sad rather than angry, and he paused to bend over and scratch Tilly behind her ears for a long moment before continuing, “It’s why I think we need some time apart, and why this job has come up at the best possible moment.”

“It’s the worst possible moment.” Hannibal found himself struggling to find the words to convince Face that leaving, for however short a period, was not the solution, but his husband had always been the one with the gift for finding the right words at the right moment.

And sure enough, Face’s next words, spoken calmly and quietly, felt like a knife twisting deep inside Hannibal’s chest. “I disagree. I love you with all my heart, John, but I don’t like you very much right now. And, if I’m being completely honest, I don’t like the man I’m becoming when I’m with you.” 

There came a bloom of unexpected anger at those words, and before Hannibal could think better of it, he found himself saying, “You’re hardly blameless in all of this. It isn’t entirely my fault.”

Face didn’t rise to his bait, though, reaching down instead to lift Tilly from her spot inside the third suitcase and settling her on the pillows. “You think I don’t know that? But at least I’ve tried. I’ve cut back on my overtime, so I could be here more often rather than at work. I’ve tried my hardest to support you with whatever your problems are, but you won’t talk to me.” 

“Face… Templeton, I – ”

“Whenever I try you just walk away from me, or we end up fighting, and I’m worried that one day soon, this – ” Face gestured again to the bruise on his cheek, the first hint of anger flashing in his beautiful eyes. “This will happen again, or something worse, and I know you won’t forgive yourself if you hurt me again. It’s down to you now. I can’t help you until you accept that you need help.”

A sudden thought hit Hannibal, and rather than responding to Face’s almost-question, he asked, “If I hadn’t come back home early, would you have even told me you were leaving today? Would I have come back tonight to find nothing but an empty house?”

“The fact that you can even ask that… That isn’t the John ‘Hannibal’ Smith I married.” Face turned abruptly away, heading through to the ensuite. Hannibal had to strain to hear the angry words which followed, his heart breaking anew with each bitter sentence. “Of course I would have gone to find you. I would have told you I loved you and that I would call you the second I landed in Washington. And I would have promised you I’d stay in touch, and that I hoped you would call me too, or email, or text, or anything.” 

Face’s odd choice of tense hit Hannibal hard. It was clear that none of that would be happening now, and he hung his head as his legs started shaking again, threatening to dump him on the bedroom floor. “What can I do?” he asked quietly, resigned to helping Face pack as his husband reappeared with what appeared to be the entire contents of the bathroom cabinet, bottles and jars of all shapes and sizes being dumped haphazardly into the third suitcase.

“Just promise me you’ll look after yourself while I’m gone, and really think about everything that’s happened over the last few months.” That wasn’t what Hannibal had meant, but before he could ask again, Face had slowly crossed the bedroom to stand in front of him at last, his eyes softening. “I love you. And I’ll miss you, every single day.”

Hannibal dared to reach out with shaking hands, resting one hand carefully on his husband’s left hip, only inches above where the prosthetic leg began, and breathed a sigh of relief when Face allowed the contact. “I’ll miss you more.” He forced a smile, knowing how false it must appear, before kissing Face softly on the forehead.

Twelve weeks. Three months. Hannibal had no idea how he would ever make it through even half of that, all alone.


	4. Two

There was something wrong with the door. Had to be – the damned key didn’t fit.

Hannibal lifted the key to his face, squinted at it, blinked. It was the right key, the front door key, but it wouldn’t fit in the lock. “Why won’t you work?” he asked it belligerently, confused.

In the next moment he nearly had a heart attack when a voice actually answered him: “Upside down.”

“Shit.” He flung the key away, barely hearing it clatter to the floor as he stumbled backwards off the porch, tripping over his own feet to land inelegantly in a heap on the lawn.

The world span dizzyingly around him for a long moment as he lay there, the grass cool and damp beneath him, and when it settled he realised that the front door was now open. In the rectangle of light revealed, he could make out a shadowy shape, just standing there. Watching him.

“Who’s that?” he slurred, trying and failing to pull his hands under him in an attempt to sit up. Never mind; it was nice lying on the grass in the darkness.

“Who the hell do you think it is, John?” The shadow sounded angry as it moved forwards, crouching carefully down in front of him, and Hannibal blinked again and again until the figure suddenly became clear.

“Face!” It was Face, of course it was Face. Who else would it be? “Lover-boy! Husband!”

“You’ve remembered you’re married then? And you obviously remembered where you live tonight, so I guess I should be thankful for that much.” Face reached out one hand, a tad impatiently. “Come on. Let’s get you up and in.”

But it was nice outside, Hannibal mused as he laid back completely and looked up at the stars. Getting up seemed like a lot of effort, really, even if getting up did mean he could kiss Face hello. “But it’s nice out. Don’t wanna go in. Let’s stay out.” 

Face sighed, still holding out his hand. “John, it’s nearly two in the morning. I want to go to bed, and you don’t want to sleep in the front yard, believe me.”

He didn’t sound angry any more, Hannibal mused, as the stars circled slowly above his head. Couldn’t be all that bad then, and Face probably couldn’t see the stars from where he was crouched, so Hannibal reached out a hand of his own to pull his husband down with him.

But to his surprise Face resisted. “No, John,” he hissed, and that anger seemed to be back. “I’m not in the mood for a drunken fumble on the grass. Get your ass up, right now.”

Hannibal pouted, really wanting to kiss Face. A bossy Face was a hot Face, he’d always felt. Perhaps he should tell his husband. Perhaps it would help.

“You’re hot, lover boy.” 

“And you’re drunk. Again.” Face tugged firmly on Hannibal’s hand, and Hannibal reluctantly let himself be pulled to a sitting position, then all the way up to his feet, staggering slightly as the planet shifted beneath him. Gravity was being a bit odd. 

Face was there to catch him, of course, and Hannibal wrapped his arms around his strong, brilliant, utterly gorgeous husband, ducking his head down to try to catch a kiss. “Love you, baby,” he told Face, but Face turned his head away, starting to walk them both back towards the still-open front door.

“You reek of whiskey,” Face told him with a shake of his head, and Hannibal frowned, confused. He’d only had two or three. Or had it been four or five?

“Just a couple of drinks with the boys. I left you a note.” Hannibal paused as Face bent down to scoop up the door key from where it must have landed earlier. “Didn’t I leave a note? I meant to leave a note.”

Face had still been at work when Hannibal had left. He’d cut back on his hours a bit recently but to Hannibal it still felt like Face spent too much time in the office and not enough at home with him. So Hannibal was entitled to a drink or two, surely. Just to take his mind off things. He didn’t want to worry Face with his problems, not when Face was so busy with whatever fucking classified shit he was dealing with at the moment.

“Yeah, I found your note.” Face pushed Hannibal gently through the door, leaning him up against the wall as he turned to lock up behind them, and Hannibal stayed where he was put, blinking in the bright light of the hall. “You wrote ‘gone out, back later’.”

Perfectly accurate, Hannibal felt, so why was Face mad at him? “Did you have a bad day at work?” he asked after a moment, sure that was where the problem must lie, and Face froze in place with his back to Hannibal, his shoulders tense. Face had the most gorgeous muscles, Hannibal mused with a smile, and he pushed himself off the wall, reaching out to massage the tension away.

But Face twisted away from him again, leaving Hannibal to stumble into the door. “Don’t touch me,” Face told him firmly. “Not when you’re like this. I don’t want your hands on me right now. Just… Just go to bed, John, please. We’ll talk in the morning.”

Hannibal wasn’t entirely sure what there was to talk about, not really. Face had been at work so Hannibal had gone out for a drink. Or two. If Face hadn’t wanted him to go out then Face shouldn’t have been out. Whatever Face’s problem was, it wasn’t worth the argument, though – Hannibal was suddenly exhausted, and his ears were ringing. Bed sounded good. Everything else could wait.

“Sure thing, baby.” Hannibal stepped back and dropped his hands to his sides, then took another step back again, then, as he started to turn, he abruptly tripped over something that yowled unhappily. “What the – ?”

“Woah, easy there!” Face moved faster than Hannibal could fall, catching him under the arms and steadying him with ease. “Get away, Tilly. Not a good time.”

The damned cat, of course that was what he’d tripped on. Face’s cat. “Your bloody cat, always under my feet – ”

“Don’t you dare start on the cat, John.” Face gave him a not-so-gentle push towards the stairs, bright blue eyes sparking with his own exhaustion. “Bed, now. Go on, I’m right behind you.”

For some reason, Hannibal felt a flare of anger at his husband’s words. “I can walk up the god-damned stairs by myself,” he muttered, missing the bannister on his first attempt but managing to seize hold on his second try. “Been doing it for years.”

Face made no comment, which was probably for the best as it actually took nearly all of Hannibal’s concentration to make it up the first few steps unassisted. Perhaps there was something wrong with the staircase, he thought briefly, as it felt like they were at a wonky angle – as he stumbled again, Face’s steadying hands were immediately back on him, squeezing his upper arms reassuringly.

“Easy, love,” Face murmured behind him, worry present now in his voice, but the worry and the gentle touch were too much for Hannibal who shrugged off his husband’s hands. Perhaps a little more violently than he intended.

A grunt and a gasp from behind him, presumably Face dodging out of the way as Hannibal’s flailing elbows connected with the wall, with the bannister, with something soft, with goodness only knew what – until Hannibal finally came to a rest, legs akimbo, one hand leaning on the wall and one on the top step, breathing hard. 

“I said, I can walk up by myself,” he managed to slur as he pulled himself up the last few steps, attempting to regain some of his dignity and headed for the bathroom without ever looking back.


	5. One

Hannibal sat and stared at the ever-blinking cursor on the blank white screen of his laptop. It seemed to be mocking him, somehow, with its steady and patient blink. Never pausing even for a second. Ready and waiting. But waiting for what?

He’d typed about fifty or so words during the morning, then deleted each and every one of them. He didn’t know where to start, and until he knew where to start he had no idea where he was going.

He didn’t remember it being this difficult last time. When his own body had forced him to take it easy after taking several bullets to the chest, the words had come easily enough, flowing from his fingers and telling the story he’d wanted to tell. He’d found it surprising, to say the least – Hannibal was a man who had always used a combination of brains and brawn during his career in the Rangers, and he’d rarely had to write his way out a situation. Words had always been Face’s forte, not Hannibal’s.

Now, expectations were running high for his second book, after the first had unexpectedly hit the New York Times top ten. The whirlwind tour of book signings and promotional events had been utterly exhausting but also endlessly fascinating, meeting other soldiers who recognised their own lives in Hannibal’s characters and plots, as well as other men and women who had enjoyed the action-packed story and were hungry for more.

Face had taken a particular glee in teasing Hannibal about his female fan-base, too – women, mostly of a particular age, who had apparently not only enjoyed Hannibal’s book but also had a not-so-subtle crush on the tall and silver-haired former-Colonel. Hannibal had enjoyed it for what it was, bemused at the attention, but had taken more pleasure in going home to his handsome husband every night, whether that had been to a hotel room or their own little house. 

He’d been incredibly grateful that Face had managed to take a few days off work here and there, in order to accompany him around the country at least part of the time. The thought of being apart from his husband for more than a couple of days simply made Hannibal’s chest hurt.

But the whirlwind tour and all the accompanying PR had to come to an end at some point, and so Hannibal was now left staring at that blinking cursor all day every day. It was definitely taunting him. He’d already received a hefty advance for his second novel, confident that he had another story in him, and it wasn’t as if he didn’t have ideas. On the contrary, he had a long lifetime of relevant experience to draw on, and he knew the direction he wanted to take his characters, but the words just wouldn’t come.

With a growl of frustration, he slammed the laptop shut, some part of his brain aware that he was using more force than was probably necessary. He’d been staring at the screen for nearly four hours, with not a single word to show for it. Enough, for one day.

What the hell else could he do with his day, though? It was a dilemma he’d found himself facing more and more often since his book tour had ended. He’d already spent an hour at the gym earlier that morning, so the idea of going out for a run didn’t really hold much appeal. Looked like rain, anyway.

He’d taken the dog for so many walks over the last week that even their ever-excitable Labrador seemed to be losing enthusiasm. And the cat didn’t exactly ‘play’ on command, preferring to sleep her life away in a warm and sunny spot, though she did have her playful moments. Usually at the most inopportune moments, like when Hannibal had just taken his husband to bed with more than sleep on his mind.

There were dishes stacked in the kitchen sink, leftover from breakfast, and there was also a small shopping list pinned to the door of the fridge – the two tasks combined might take up an hour or so, total, even if Hannibal chose to walk to the local shops rather than taking the car.

Still seated at his desk, Hannibal glanced over his shoulder at the clock on the wall, deliberately and carefully hung out of his direct line of sight. He hated clock-watching, yet he’d caught himself doing it more and more often. And there was still at least five hours for him to kill before Face might get home from work, though in reality it would probably be longer given the hours the younger man had been working lately.

Hannibal always tried to have dinner ready and waiting when Face got home in the evenings, still relishing that part of his retirement from the Rangers, but even that simple task became difficult when Face was so frequently in the office until gone nine at night, or even later.

Face couldn’t even tell Hannibal what ‘special project’ he was working on at the moment, of course. Hannibal was retired, and with that retirement he had lost his security clearance, something that hadn’t bothered him much at first. He’d actually found it surprisingly freeing not to have to worry about classified information, content to leave it all to Face.

But recently Hannibal had found it increasingly hard to cope without his clearance, longing to know what was causing the stress-lines on his husband’s face to deepen, and why the bags under bright blue eyes had grown so much darker. He couldn’t ask, and Face couldn’t tell him why he was working such long days.

On Hannibal’s own darker days, he wondered if Face was simply finding reasons to stay at work, away from him. They still loved each other, still found things to talk about and took great pleasure in each other’s company, but the little voice in the back of Hannibal’s head kept asking what really held them together.

Face was doing incredibly well at work, a respected Captain on the way to making Major, leading his own team within the intelligence unit and working on any number of classified projects at a time. He was vital, and in high demand, and as brilliant in his current role as he had ever been on the ground or at the front-line.

Hannibal, on the other hand, was spending his days battling writer’s block, and trying to decide whether he should mow the grass that afternoon or save it for tomorrow. As a ‘treat’. Christ, he was pathetic.

He was also sick to death of feeling that way, though, so with a determined effort he shook off the threatening melancholy. He’d lived a hard life, fighting for his country for decades, and he figured he’d earned the right to take it easy for a while. He’d earned an afternoon on the couch with a few beers and the sports channel – no more worrying about that blinking cursor, or the empty hours, not for the rest of the day.

A few beers, and maybe he’d crack open the bottle of expensive whiskey he’d been saving for a ‘special occasion’. It wasn’t Face’s drink of choice, after all.

Maybe Hannibal would even take the rest of the week off, and perhaps he’d see if Face could be spared from work for a couple of days, too. Maybe they could get away somewhere for a long weekend or, at the very least, have an evening out together, just the two of them. 

_Not likely_ , whispered that nasty little voice in Hannibal’s head.


	6. Now

As the team of doctors and nurses poked and prodded him gently, asking him what seemed like hundreds of questions he couldn’t quite answer, Face knew Hannibal never left the room for even a single second. Hannibal’s presence was like a magnetic force, or a compass pointing north, deeply comforting to Face in his confusion over what had happened to him. 

Hannibal had been right there since the moment Face had woken up. The very first thing he’d seen, in fact, hovering with such a look of exhaustion and worry in his eyes that Face had longed to kiss away the pain he could see there. But Hannibal had been the one to kiss him tenderly on the lips, when Face could barely muster a hoarse croak in greeting.

The light was too bright, and Face’s head hurt, as did the rest of his body, but all the pain was somehow bearable when Hannibal was finally allowed close enough to hold Face’s hand. Even the vague answers the doctors gave him about his condition, and exactly how he had ended up in hospital in the first place, seemed unimportant. Everything was more than a little hazy, but the fact that Hannibal was there meant everything would be okay. 

Eventually, the doctors and nurses left them alone again, urging Hannibal to press the call button if he had any concerns at all, and telling Face to get some rest. And as Face drifted quietly back to sleep with Hannibal right there by his side once again, he couldn’t stop smiling, even as Hannibal couldn’t seem to let go of his hand.

* * *

The next time Face woke, he felt far more connected to everything around him, with some of the fuzziness gone from his thoughts. Hannibal was still there, sitting right by his side wearing a patient yet tired smile, but the light in the hospital room was different – early evening, perhaps, or early morning. Hard to tell. Face wondered how long he’d been asleep, but as Hannibal pressed his lips to the back of Face’s hand, it didn’t seem like the most pressing thing to ask.

Clearing his throat and swallowing hard, Face chose the direct and important question instead, his own voice sounding almost alien to his ears. “So, are you going to tell me what really happened?”

Hannibal lifted a glass of water from the bedside table and helped Face to take a few sips, a gentle hand cradling Face’s head, quite obviously stalling for time. Face allowed himself to be fussed over, too weak to protest, and kept silent until finally his husband asked his own quiet question rather than replying.

“How much do you remember, Temp?” 

Face managed to huff a tired laugh in response. “You sound like one of those doctors from before.”

“I know, and I’m sorry. But you’ve given me quite a scare.” Hannibal’s voice cracked on the last word, and Face couldn’t help but frown, worried at what he must have put the older man through for the stoic Hannibal to be so visibly emotional. “I’m not supposed to… What exactly do you remember?”

Honestly, Face didn’t actually remember much of anything, not with any clarity at least. “I’m not sure,” he said slowly, thinking hard but hitting nothing but brick walls. “It’s all a little vague and fuzzy. My head’s full of cotton candy. I was in Washington, I think?” 

Hannibal nodded quickly, a flash of almost-excitement in his eyes. “That’s right.”

“So, you came up to Washington as well?” Face was fairly certain he remembered being in Washington by himself, leaving his husband back home in Georgia. If he’d been unconscious long enough for Hannibal to make the trip up north, well, that didn’t bode particularly well.

“Of course I came.” Hannibal’s words were low, fierce, and his grip on Face’s hand became almost painful in its intensity. “They called me in the middle of the night, told me you’d been hurt in an accident. I was terrified I might’ve lost you.”

“We’re still here? I mean, still in DC?” Face asked, trying to solidify everything in his hazy mind and finding himself incredibly relieved when Hannibal nodded again.

“At Walter Reed. You’ve been out for quite a while.”

“That’s what the doctors said.” Face remembered that much from when he’d woken before, but he needed to know more. “You want to narrow that down for me? A little detail would be appreciated. Are we talking hours, days…?”

His heart rate picked up in nervous anticipation as Hannibal glanced away for a long moment, and Face found himself expecting a refusal to answer, or another sidestep at the very least. He frowned, trying to muster his strength for a counter-argument, but then Hannibal started to speak, his voice so quiet Face had to almost strain to hear over the soft beeping of the medical equipment he was hooked up to.

“I got that phone call twenty three days ago, baby.” Piercing blue eyes studied Face carefully as Hannibal continued slowly. “They kept you in an induced coma for more than two weeks, and since then you’ve been just drifting in and out; some days it felt like you were back with me, and you seemed to know where you were, but then you were just gone again. I don’t know how much you remember of those days now, but most of the time you haven’t recognised me at all.”

“Twenty three days?” Face could hardly believe what his husband was saying. “It must’ve been bad, then.”

It was a statement rather than a question, but Hannibal nodded again, squeezing his eyes shut as if blocking out the memories. “’Bad’ doesn’t even begin to come close, Temp. What’s the last thing you do remember clearly?” 

Face closed his own eyes loosely, searching through the foggier depths of his memory. He wasn’t in any pain at the moment, strongly suspecting he had some powerful drugs coursing through his bloodstream, but it felt as if his brain was working at only half-speed. Rebooting, almost. Not surprising, perhaps, not if he’d truly been asleep for over three weeks.

“I really don’t know,” he admitted eventually. “I was working a lot, I remember that much. At the Pentagon mostly. I think I’d been here for a few weeks. Five weeks, maybe six. Does that sound right?”

“Yes, it does. You’d been up here for exactly six weeks and three days when I got the call.” Hannibal sounded stronger, more confident, and Face opened his eyes to see his husband smiling softly at him with watery eyes. “The doctors said you might not remember the accident itself, so you’ve maybe forgotten a few days. We can deal with that. Thank goodness it isn’t worse.”

“John, please…” Face was almost terrified to ask, but he needed to know. “What actually happened to me? You still haven’t said.”

“Everything we’ve survived, all the times we were shot at or stabbed… Bombs and grenades and crashing choppers, and then you got hit by a drunk driver.” Hannibal paused, obviously waiting to see Face’s reaction, before continuing carefully when Face stayed silent and still in his bed. “You’d been out at a restaurant with some colleagues. You were walking back to your car, and this asshole sped through a red light when you were crossing the street. He left you for dead on the side of the road.”

Nothing. Face felt nothing at hearing Hannibal’s words, not even a glimmer of a memory, or a faint ringing of bells. He remembered nothing of the accident, and perhaps that was for the best, given the brief scene Hannibal had just painted. But his husband seemed to be waiting for a reply, blue eyes now sharp and intense, so Face asked, “It was just me?”

“You were the only one hurt,” Hannibal confirmed, and Face felt another flash of relief. “Major Williams saw it happen and called an ambulance straight away. The bastard driver wrapped his car around a lamppost twenty minutes later; he’s locked up right now, and he’ll stay there for a very long time. Prison’s probably the safest place for him.”

Hannibal’s last words were spoken in a low growl which sent shivers down Face’s spine, and he squeezed his husband’s fingers as tightly as he could manage, which wasn’t with much strength, sadly – he felt as weak as a new-born kitten. “John, how bad is it?”

“Fractured skull,” Hannibal started with a slightly pained sigh. “Swelling and bleeding on the brain. Nothing else broken, miraculously, though you were bruised all over and had some nasty scrapes from the road. The doctors had you in and out of surgery so many times in those first few days, I felt sure I was going to lose you.”

Christ, it was a miracle Face was awake at all, let alone with most of his memories intact. A sudden, faintly horrific thought occurred to him. “My hair?” he asked urgently, not sure whether to be reassured or not when Hannibal actually laughed, a sudden burst of brightness amidst the gloom.

“Only you could worry about your hair at a time like this.” Hannibal reached one hand up to stroke very gently, almost timidly, across Face’s forehead, his lips quirked in a tiny smile. “Yes, I’m afraid they had to shave it for surgery, love, but it’s already growing back. Reminds me of the day I first saw you, with your brand new buzz cut. You looked about twelve.”

“Right now I feel like I’m about ninety,” Face admitted reluctantly, his eyelids starting to feel heavy as sleep beckoned him once again. Hannibal’s gently stroking hand moved to cup his cheek instead. 

“Why don’t you get some more sleep? Real sleep, healing sleep.” Hannibal leaned closer and pressed a lingering kiss to Face’s lips. “I’ll be right here when you wake up, I promise.”

“Sounds good,” Face tried to say, but he wasn’t sure the words actually left his mouth before he slipped away again, the reassuring pressure of Hannibal’s hand on his own anchoring him to reality.

* * *

“Hello there, my sleeping beauty.” 

Face smiled before he even opened his eyes, rolling his head slightly on the pillows as he woke completely and heaved a soft sigh. “You’re still here,” he breathed, and his husband’s deep laugh filled the air.

“Of course I’m still here. I promised you I would be.” Face felt warm lips pressed to his forehead in a kiss. “How do you feel?”

“Bit of a headache but not bad, actually. I suspect I should be feeling a lot worse than I do. Thank God for the good drugs, am I right?” With an effort, Face blinked his eyes open and met Hannibal’s concerned gaze. “I’m okay, love. I remember waking up last time, and you telling me about the accident.” 

Hannibal released a visible sigh of relief with a nod, broad chest expanding and shoulders rising and falling, and Face felt a distant pang of guilt for all the worry and fear he must have put Hannibal through over the last few weeks. His husband looked pale and drawn, as if he hadn’t seen the sun in far too long, and he looked old and tired. It wasn’t a good look for Hannibal, and Face knew he was the cause.

The light in the hospital room had shifted again, and there was no visible clock on the wall – Face wondered how long he’d been asleep for this time, and Hannibal seemed to read his tired mind with ease. “You’ve only been asleep a few hours, Temp. You didn’t miss much.”

“So, what did I miss when I was asleep before? Three weeks is one hell of a long catnap.” 

Face wondered if it was perhaps too soon to try to joke about it, and sure enough Hannibal bit his lower lip briefly, shrugging helplessly before replying. “I haven’t been paying much attention to the real world, kid, sorry. I’ll get some newspapers if you like, and we can catch up together, though I don’t think there’s been anything interesting.”

“You’ve really been here the whole time?” 

“As if I would ever want to be anywhere else other than right by your side.” There was so much left unsaid in Hannibal’s simple declaration, the love and passion clear to Face even as another tired memory stirred in the depths of his battered brain, making his heart sink slightly. Oh, how could he have forgotten? “BA and Murdock are in town too,” Hannibal continued, unaware of Face’s change in mood. “They got in a few days after the accident. You haven’t been on your own for even a minute, baby, not since that very first day.”

“We were fighting, weren’t we?” Face asked abruptly, suddenly remembering drinking and late nights and Hannibal pulling away from him emotionally, withdrawing into his own world. “Before I came to Washington, we’d been fighting.”

Hannibal hung his head slightly, almost guiltily, and seized Face’s hand tightly. “Let’s not talk about that now, okay?” he muttered, staring down at the thin hospital blankets. “You’re going to be just fine, I won’t have it any other way, and nothing else matters at the moment.”

But Face wasn’t prepared to let it go, not yet and certainly not so easily, finding the strength to tug his hand away. “John – ”

“I love you with all my heart,” Hannibal pressed on, remorse in his voice now. “And whatever problems we might’ve been having before you came up here, I know we’ll fix them together once they let you come home with me. The worst of it was me, I know, and I’ve already started trying to fix my… shall we say, issues?”

“John?” Face hardly dared to ask – could Hannibal possibly mean what Face hoped?

His husband swallowed hard before lifting his eyes to meet Face’s gaze head-on. “Temp, I haven’t had a single drink since I got that call. I even found a meeting, right here in DC, and I’ve been along a few times when one of the others could sit with you. You were right, okay? I don’t know if you remember – ”

“I do.” Of course he did. How could Face possibly have forgotten?

Hannibal tried to smile, but it was a crooked, pathetic little thing. “You were right,” he whispered, and Face could hear the anguish and self-recrimination there. “I just couldn’t see it. I didn’t want to see it. I’ll need your help once you’re better, of course. And you’ll need my help getting back on your feet again, so to speak. We can help each other. We can fix this, what we have. It isn’t too late.”

“It isn’t that easy, either.” Face felt hope starting to burn in his belly, but he’d been through too much to believe things would really change, once they got back to their normal lives in Georgia. “John, you can’t think that’ll be the end of it, not after everything that happened before.”

“I don’t think that, not for a second. But we have to start somewhere.” Hannibal sat up a little straighter in his plastic chair, squaring his shoulders and looking directly at Face with blazing blue eyes. “I have to start somewhere. I’ll prove to you that I’m a better man than I’ve been these last few months. I’ll prove to you that I’m still worth trusting. I promise, with all my heart, that this is a new start.”

Staring into his husband’s eyes and seeing honesty and determination there, Face remembered all the long months of watching Hannibal struggle with his writing, and facing the empty hours in his retirement. And for his own part, he remembered working longer hours, losing himself in his job when his husband refused to talk about what was going on in his head. If he’d been around more, if he’d found a way to force Hannibal to deal with his drinking sooner – 

No, what was done was done. Hannibal had made his own decisions, good and bad, as had Face. Regrets were useless. They had to find a way to move forwards now, and if Hannibal had truly stopped drinking while Face had been in hospital, then perhaps it all hadn’t been in vain. They were both to blame, to a greater or lesser extent, and Hannibal had the right idea: they could only fix their relationship together. 

The love they shared was far too important and precious for them to allow it to keep falling apart without even trying.

It would be a long road and, Face knew, a hard and painful road for both of them. But they’d get there, together.

And with a soft smile, he reached out his hand, palm up, waiting until Hannibal hesitantly reached out to take it before intertwining their fingers. Together. Just the way it was meant to be.

**Author's Note:**

> Written in response to the Valentine's Challenge 2017 at the Hannibal/Face Fan Fic group on Yahoo, which said simply:
> 
> It has to have our favourite couple in it and at one time or another they had to be in love with one another or can still be if you wish. From there it is all up to you.


End file.
